Reapers Wall

Written to: Fireblossom Friday writing challenge "The Distorted Lens"

follow this link for more details Imaginary Gardens

Reapers Wall

Today started crispy cold, but nice, as

weather warnings came on the car speakers.

The grit truck missed a patch of black ice and

slowly my world turned topsy turvey. You

stole my ride with your phosphorescent eyes

in the bright velvet darkness of night, and

I saw my life dance to the ice maidens

tune waved along with her slim finger tips.

A scribe in a white coat spoke in strange tongues,

as a quill wrote in transparent black ink

filling an empty scroll full of weird scribbles.

And all the while the Tappers kept tapping

tappity tap, tappity tap, all night

long under a meridian green moon.

I looked through your hot phosphorescent eyes

when something cold burned against my chest.

Stone by stone up went a charred wall to the

monotonous rhythm of, beep, beep, beep.

At the topping out ball the Tappers skipped

to the frantic swish of the reapers scythe.

But from golden fields with ears of rye corn

came a warm whisper, hang in there my love.

Through snow winters blue and red summer nights

I fought with an electrical maelstrom.

The reaper was grim and seemed to weaken

as the scribes apprentice knocked down the wall.

And there was the green moon on a white screen

as my lightning bolt swords flashed up his scythe.

And soldiers clad in green gathered around

and cheered me on in victorious song.

Now golden fields smelled fresh and soft as silk

as they brushed across my tormented face.

Julian Clarke © Sept' 2017 

Linked to Imaginary Gardens

Linked to Poets United for Sunday's Pantry

The Future is Imminent (acrostic)

The brass key turns tightening the spring

How the second hand races, chasing dates

Evenly stitching together the edges of time:

Facing its face, no smile, no frown

Unzipping the seconds into minutes

Tormenting, teasing, running late

Unperturbed silently setting the day;

Relentlessly sweeping round and round

Each hand turning towards the future:

If the clock work were to stop, no tick-tock

Suspended in time the hands would wait.

Ingeniously, somehow they will always turn

Magically pointing to impending events

Mocking us, they will never age . . .

In time zones across the lands these hands

Never stuffed in pockets in perpetual motion

Engraving the past and sealing the present.

Now the digits twist in time, one understands

The future is imminent . . . (it’s not in our hands)

Julian Clarke © 2017

Linked to Tuesday Platform Imaginary Gardens

Angelique

The following piece is not autobiographical. However, I tried for a period of time spread over several days to imagine what it would feel like to be in love with someone for many years, someone whose love was given completely to another and blind to me. Perhaps, in hindsight, this is not a good thing to do as it left me feeling quite low for a while. 

Angelique

I shall tell you a tale of forbidden love.

Letters, you never wrote,

words, my eyes never read.

For two and twenty years I was blind to all others,

but your rainbow heart was in love with another.

Now I am a dreamer in a dark lonely night

caught in every catcher where shadows always fight.

I am but a dreamer looking out from within,

glazed in every mirror that will not let you in.

Time passed as shooting stars crossed a blue velvet sky.

Words, weighed on summers breath

that never kissed your neck.

Today, I wept as I swept autumn leaves from your grave

and touched the pot of gold where your heart now lays.

Julian Clarke © Sept' 2017

Shall link to Imaginary Gardens with Real Toads Tuesday Platform

And  Sunday Pantry at Poets United

Summer shapes (uncomplicated things)

I find the inspiration to write about sad or tragic events is becoming a regular process for me. And so I thought I'd try and write a short piece on less complicated times and things.

Summer Shapes (uncomplicated things)

Rectangular splashes of colour on sands,

a philatelist’s dream of patch work stamps

nestled behind blue and red canvas screens.

Hear the squeals of laughter as children run

to the rhythm of white lapping waves.

Paisley patterned kerchiefs knotted by four

and milk bottle tops and milk bottle legs,

some should cover up their wobbly shapes.

Triangular sails dance on the blue,

filled with a warm breeze out on a broad reach.

A round sun flames, then fizzles to the eve

to new sounds of sweethearts kissing the night.

© Julian Clarke Sept' 2017

Linked to Poets United Sunday Pantry